Patron of Squatters
by Be3
Summary: Or, an excerpt from Elementary Investigation by Mr.Sherlock Holmes. Warning: AU. Watson never served in the Army, but he is an M.D. Holmes had never had a colleague. Henri Watson completely OOC. Add men disappearing from opium dens, and..
1. Chapter 9 Ethics

The issue raised in this Chapter is, perhaps, the only aspect of detective work not subordinate solely to deduction and common sense, which is why the Chapter was written in a manner somewhat different from the rest of the book.

The area of ethics is vast and as yet uncharted, though there are tacit cornerstone conventions that complement the official code of conduct. The unofficial investigator, on the other hand, can and occasionally does find himself in a position where those are inapplicable, with only discretion and integrity to guide him. It is not, strictly speaking, the line between Good and Evil; nor it is the common condition of being threatened or bribed. Those are simple to decide upon. There is, however, the odd instance such as the one I will now discuss in great detail, but necessarily sketchily, even reverting to the style preferred by writers of fiction, for the student to choose the course of action for himself. The delicate nature of the case has, of course, prevented me from disclosing any name save mine own.

It was the spring of 189..., and I had earned myself a vacation from both public and governmental duties by having just helped the Force to capture of the late Professor Moriarty's ring of criminals. I was to spend it in a remote location. Inspector Patterson, in charge of the investigation, could not spare a man to accompany me on my travels as far as the seaside, in case there were, as there often are, members of the gang to escape justice, and thus I was going to leave in the guise of a Capt. Peter Basil.

My plans were adjusted the very evening I was packing my chest.

'Mr. Holmes, a visitor would like to speak to you on a matter of the utmost importance.'

With that, and without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Hudson (the praiseworthy landlady I had been the tenant of for most of my career in London) left a card on top of the evening paper, neatly covering the tiny advert about Patterson's success, and departed.

I was not too eager to meet this visitor. However, there was little I could do, for he was already coming in and looking around avidly.

A rather non-descript person around thirty years old, neat in appearance and speech, with greying hair already thinning, he appeared the picture of decorum. His pale eyes belonged to a much younger person, and his bearing indicated strong will and optimism. He haled from Scotland, but there was little of his motherland about him except his surname.

He never interrupted anybody; rather, he gave a chance for anyone to contribute before him. Perhaps it was what earned him a beat of silence every time after he finished talking. Despite his successful career as a money-lender, he had not lost – and, as I came to realise, indeed acquired – faith in the goodness of Man. He also proved to have a life-long reputation of Spartan fairness, only loaned to the poor, and never asked for more than was his due.

Mr. Henri Watson courteously allowed me to retain the appearance of a captain, and related his troubles in a speedy and effective fashion. His brother, a Doctor by trade, was, in his considered opinion, digging himself a pit by dabbling in shady activities that had something to do with opium dens and people going missing. I did recall a recent scandal involving a subaltern disappearing the night after coming to the capital, and Mr. Watson frankly admitted that his wayward brother could have had a hand in that. _Boasted_, even.

He hastened to reassure me, though, that the man was not to be put behind bars.

'I swear by our father's grave,' he said simply and with great dignity, 'he is as honest as Joseph. Hasn't once overstepped the law, in spirit or in letter.'

'Was he compromised in any way, then?' I asked, bewildered.

'Not yet. Rather, I am afraid he would be killed by his, ah, _competitors_.'

'A valid concern. Well. I will look into your affair, but I will reserve the judgement for later.'

His face clouded. 'Judgement is something best left to judges, Mr. Holmes. Mark my words, we mere mortals are not cut out for it.'

He went then, and I made the changes to accommodate his request and, I have to confess, to satisfy my own curiosity. For I had, unbeknownst to my client, an inkling of what lay ahead of me; rumours and hearsay, but from that I could already gather that for someone who wished to keep a low profile for a while, Dr. John Watson's little world would make as fine a cover as any Continental resort.


	2. King of Truands

Having seen my client off, I reviewed the few facts, if not ironclad, then at least strongly consistent in the public's opinion.

He was told to live frugally, a squatter in a condemned building, in the company of various characters of dubious virtue and reputation; though none of the latter would ever turn on him, even at great personal cost. That I knew for certain, for the Yard had tried and failed to incriminate him more than once. Dr. Watson always had an alibi.

His abode called to mind _la Cour des miracles_ of M. Hugo, if a bit cleaner, and without an overt disregard for the authorities; it had its own law enforced through some unknown means. Naturally, the circle had to have its King of Truands; naturally, too, the Doctor was commonly believed to fill that role.

If he did, he was nothing like Hugo's _Clopin_. People talked of him as kind, brave, ready to share his last, devoted, knowledgeable, meek, and honest. He also came across as an obstinate, resourceful, distrustful and grudge-bearing tight-lipped fox. Now and again, a girl was mentioned to live with him as a wife, and she seemed to be always the same person. She was never named, though. His pack of dogs could scare the daylights out of a Constable, and they obeyed him as if they read his mind.

He was little heard of outside the slums of East End. Nevertheless, he was known to the junior staff of the St. Bart's hospital, and held in high regard there.

Ordinarily, I would gather more data from reliable sources before embarking on a venture this hazardous. It is pure foolishness to leave any potential risk unattended if one can help it. That night, however, I was desperate to escape before the true enemy found me, and set out with little preparation – clearly not the wisest decision.

Despite my haste, a sniper managed to wound me, but the weather was bad enough that I lost my pursuers easily… That bullet that grazed my forearm proved to be a benediction later, when Watson's watchmen let me in without a question and took me directly to the man, though I admit, for a while I did not view it as such. My annoyance was met with more equanimity than is human at one o'clock in the morning.

'Come in,' a voice commanded. The door, of which I, with all my night vision, could not discern even the barest outline, so dark it was in that unlit yard, swung widely open, and I eagerly obliged. The two guards who stopped me at the gate did not follow.

'In' turned out to be a tiny room. To my right there were a bookshelf holding more vials and medical paraphernalia than books and a wardrobe at the opposite wall, framing a window that looked like it was another cabinet or a folding screen. To my left – a coat rack with a single coat hanging on a peg, and another bookshelf running along the adjoining wall; this one was obviously rebuilt and added to many times, as the boards were of different texture and colour. It contained stacks of files. Right before me there was a cot, covered with a holey afghan, and behind the cot a man was sitting at a desk, regarding me coolly. I did my best to look dazed, staring at the fourth wall behind him – it was bare except ribbons of wallpaper desperately clinging to it, a door and the aforementioned wardrobe.

'Sit,' he ordered dryly. 'Can you take off your jacket?'

I nodded.

'Then do so!' I hastened to undo the buttons, but it was slow work, and in a minute he grunted and went to help me. At last I could examine him in the uneven light of his lantern-like lamp.

Middle height, brown hair, brown eyes, nothing that would merit a second look if one were not a careful observer. The lines in his face were, perhaps, too many for a man his age – he might have had a few years on me. His eyes were red, though from a lack of sleep or an overindulgence in something else I did not yet know. He wore old clothes that only accented his thinness, but his collar was new. He kept his watch on the table, and by the dust it had gathered, had done so for quite some time. He didn't wear a ring. I rather suspected there was a gun in his pocket, not on display but within reach, nesting near the stethoscope. His callous hands were gentle, though he seemed angry at me; he swore when he saw needle marks on my arm.

'Morphine?' he asked with disgust. 'Or cocaine? Or something?'

I hesitated.

'I _need_ to know.'

'Cocaine.' To this day I cannot figure out why I whispered, but it mollified him. He sighed, twisting a tourniquet.

'I'm going to stitch you.' He procured an unlabelled bottle from under his desk. When he uncorked it, letting out a wave of alcohol vapours, my head swam.

'Lie down,' he snapped. 'And don't think of drinkin' it.' I had not; that would be pure suicide. 'I'll bring you water.'

He did not go for it immediately; instead, he sterilized and stitched my arm, frowning in the dim light and cursing every time before tying a suture off, like he regretted the pain he was causing.

'I had to,' he murmured at last, apologetically, then unlocked the wardrobe and took out an ugly earthenware jug with a lid. 'Have a sip.'

I did. Water it was. He let me drink my fill and carefully put the thing back and locked it up again, then glanced at me suspiciously. I was honestly taken aback by his behaviour but held my tongue.

I learned, soon, that there was little but the jug there.

'Have a place to sleep?'

I shook my head. I had hoped to stay right where I was. The bumpy cot was softer than the pavement, though the room was only slightly warmer than the street; Watson saved on coal.

'Hungry?' he mused, rather than inquired, resignation in his stance and face but his voice still kindly.

'Not very.'

'Food won't wait,' he noted bitterly. I shrugged, settling on the cot with every intention of going to sleep. He cursed again, and draped my bloodstained jacket over my legs and his own coat over my torso.

'If anyone asks, I'm in the kitchen.'

'Will tell. Wait! Is this your bed?'

He found it ironic.

'It's not. Don't touch anything.'

'I won't.'

'I will know - '

'I _won't._'

'If _you_ need _anything_,' he paused, and I thought he'd wish me to go to hell, 'find someone and ask where the kitchen is.'

He pursed his lips, pocketed the keys and left, slamming the door behind him but leaving it unlocked.

In the morning, I awoke to the sight of a plate of fish and chips, a slice of bread and a glass of milk.


	3. The Watch, the Jug, and the Pearl

I see now that the form of writing I chose for this little memoir is hardly efficient. Dialogues and detailed descriptions of things not related to crime itself are a waste of paper in an essay of this kind. On the other hand, they are not sufficient to prepare the student for the onslaught of information one has to navigate in a real investigation. I can only hope that careful editing will balance one against the other.

That morning I woke to a drearier world than before. My host's generosity was unexpected, but the thought that anyone could have come in and killed me was a weightier concern in my mind. If the doctor always slept like that, I should just go away and tell his brother it was a lost battle.

Meanwhile, I had an opportunity to study the man's habits and habitat. In short, he was mostly tidy, though the floor was unswept and there was tobacco ash on the windowsill. He owned little and seemed to need even less.

The watch, gleaming dully among the what-not, was old, like most things there, bore plenty of scratches, had been pawned several times, and had a dent in the lid. I surmised that his owner, current or previous, had been a destitute drunkard with poor finger dexterity.

I was mistaken. The student would do well to seek another explanation for the condition of the timepiece now; I will return to it later.

There was a washstand between the window and the bookshelf, dry as desert. The bookshelves were the most informative feature.

The few books were all in good condition, but here and there a child had scribbled or drawn on the margin. On the contrary, the_ One Thousand and One Nights_had been perused by an adult: NB's and exclamation marks littered the pages, sentences and whole paragraphs were underlined or bracketed. Near Ala-ed-Din 's mistaking precious stones for coloured glass the reader (I am fairly certain it was Watson himself) inscribed in precise fine lettering "innocent heart?"; the page was dog-eared.

According to the diaries, the earliest subtitled "My Good Deeds For 18...", the doctor really was a saint, and a busy saint at that. He did not charge his patients for anything. I wondered how he survived. The entries were dedicated to professional matters, except for a small journal in the back row. Here there were no dates or names, but a litany of laments and ragings against the unfairness of life, convincingly illustrated. Often, he wrote only "coward, coward" and "cannot be a reason for it". I cut my survey short.

It was fortunate I did, because the man himself came in not a minute later. Apart from the bags under his eyes, nothing indicated that he had been up so late.

'Morning,' he smiled. 'How do you feel?'

'Not bad.'

'No fever?' He made to feel my forehead, but I backed away, not wishing to explain the grease-paint. He shrugged.

'If you are well enough to avoid me, I wouldn't worry about your imminent demise.' He still checked my wound and grunted his approval.

'Thank you,' I said. 'For this and everything.'

He waved it away. 'It was no trouble, Mr...?'

'Captain Peter Basil.'

'Dr. John Watson.' We shook hands, and he bent to pick up his coat. 'It would be better for your arm if you stay on dry land for some time, a week, perhaps.'

I saw my chance. 'A week, aye. A week and a year, more like.'

'What do you mean?' He turned to me, alert and curious.

'No more water for me, Doc.'

As I had hoped, he only nodded, not understanding but not asking for a reason.

'I see. Have you found a job already?'

'When?' I blurted. Watson coughed and frowned, puzzled. 'You can stay here - not for long, mind - until you do find one,' he said slowly. His face cleared. 'I will be able to monitor your recovery.'

I grumbled, not quite thrilled by the thought. He chuckled and waved me to come along. Again, he simply shut the door behind him.

'You _are_ a bit pale around the gills,' he remarked when we were outside. I nearly told him that make-up ought to be put on in daylight to look natural in it, and had to bite my tongue at the last moment. He had that effect on people.

'Well, washing should help,' he went on merrily. I glowered. 'By the way, why haven't you washed?'

Later, I learned Watson was fanatical about personal hygiene of "his men". Cholera was not infrequent in the docks at the time, and it wasn't the only possible danger.

'You locked the jug,' I parried. He hemmed.

'Old habits. My magpie was a maverick at breaking and entering.'

'Clever bird,' I replied evenly.

'Yes, he was. Oh, here we are; this is the kitchen... Mrs. Smith! This is captain Basil, I told you of him.'

'Breakfast and dinner?' The woman asked glumly.

'The very.'

'I've already have - '

Watson squeezed my elbow. 'You _haven't_,' he hissed.

Mrs. Smith gave him a resigned, all-knowing look, nodded to me and led me to the dilapidated hovel.

I spent the day helping the cook and listening on conversations. Watson's fellow squatters were a curious bunch. There were children, cleaner and evidently more cared-for than the average street arab; I heard two of them arguing about an arithmetic problem. A man who had to be their teacher had a hard time eating, being pestered with questions from all sides. Girls ate hurriedly, speaking in low voices; this was a seamstress, that worked in a bakery. A gypsy sailed in, took up her portion silently and was gone. Mrs. Smith crossed herself and glared, catching my eye. Watson did not appear at all.

At the end of the day I escaped, claiming to need the doctor, who was also the quartermaster. To my dismay, he was not there. Someone, however, had been.

That someone had washed the floor. The items that had been stacked behind the desk - vials, pencils, corks, etc. - were now heaping on it. The clutter only occupied one half of the tabletop, though. The other half was covered by a linen cloth folded in two. Faded brownish stains, some overlapping, some roughly concentric, most smudged, revealed its purpose as a sheet over which Watson dealt with lesser injuries.

There was a band of free space between those contrasting sides, where resided something I at a first glance mistook for a ray of the missing sun. However, it was a perfect pearl, throwing a pale dimpled halo on the cracked finish.

I stared at it, mesmerized. It cost far more than everything in the room combined, and yet was left for anyone to see and steal; ergo, something in its origin or properties assured its safety. I considered the significance of its placement, for it clearly implied a message of its own. Alas, with so little data it was impossible to tell - more so, taking into account how I had been wrong twice that day already. A divider, but between what and what?

Suddenly, I heard voices from the street. Deciding quickly, I let myself in the wardrobe, ducking to avoid sweeping off cobwebs.

Two men entered just as I found a position convenient for eavesdropping. The thump of the shutting door covered the click of my revolver. I was not sure what I would do if they decided to take the jewel - I had no way to know for whom it had been intended in the first place. Revealing myself or being revealed would be a disaster at this stage. It was time to improvise.

They took off their hats in deference for the roof, but didn't give the walls the same appreciation. They didn't bother with the hearth, either; there was a pause, during which, I assumed, they regarded the setting of the table, but neither commented on it.

They sat down, one on the cot, the other on the chair.

'Well, Colonel,' Watson said. 'I am at your disposal.'

'I shall not impose on your time for long,' answered a man I had not expected here - Colonel Moran, Moriarty's most trusted accomplice.


	4. Confrontation I

A/N: All toponyms are fictitious. Chapter 4, where Watson is cynical, juggles words, and gets slapped in the face.

'You said you're here on business. What would that be?'

'I am looking for a young man, Benedict Westbridge.'

'I am sorry, I do not know him.'

'On the contrary, you _do_, unless he hasn't introduced himself.'

'I do not understand,' Watson was the picture of politeness.

'He went to _The Crow's Nest_ on Thursday, and hasn't been seen since.'

'_Crow's nest_? Not that infamous opium den at Bran Street?'

'The very,' Moran grimly confirmed. 'His family is concerned, and they asked me to help, as one of Benedict's closest friends.'

Silence.

'Doctor Watson, I am not making any allegations, but some of the men I asked pointed in your direction.'

'Ah. They pointed, and here you are,' Watson hummed, oblivious to the threat I could feel through the wood. 'Ghastly place. Been there several times, in my professional capacity, mind you.'

'I have no doubt.' A beat. 'I also have no doubt that you're lying to me about not knowing the whereabouts of Mr. Westbridge.' I had to concur with Moran on this point.

'Search me.'

'If I have to, I will.'

'It would be inconvenient, not to mention a waste of time, _my_ time,' Watson mused aloud. 'The Grail is more likely to turn up than anyone you might be interested in.'

'You have the Grail?' Moran wondered, momentarily sidetracked.

'Right here.' I held my breath, but thankfully the colonel was not into ancient relics.

'Cooperate.'

'I am!'

'You are attempting to mislead me!'

'Nothing of the sort. Nonetheless, I suspect that you are capable of disrupting the routine I built for myself, and am willing to compromise to avoid it.'

'Do clarify.'

There was muffled fidgeting as if someone was settling in more comfortably.

'Tell me, Colonel, what do you think of justice.'

'A concept the society uses to justify the enslaving of an individual.'

'A less generic definition, if you please.'

'Embodied in law and custom, and enforced by a branch of otherwise meaningless institutions.'

Watson howled with laughter. It sounded as if he couldn't stop; there was a note of hysteria in it, and I sympathized with Moran when he slapped the man sharply.

'Beg your pardon… it was _priceless_… I'll tell him he's a… an…'

'Doctor.'

'I do apologise. That was rude of me. Where were we?' Moran reminded him. He grew sober.

'It may surprise you, Colonel, but in fact, I heartily agree. Justice, even – especially – tempered with mercy, is often unfair.'

I fancied the other growing impatient with the introduction. Watson continued, his voice still cracking now and then with ill-contained mirth.

'Young Westbridge, if he ever be found, will undoubtedly experience it firsthand. The disgrace! Poor boy, poor boy.'

'I will spare him that if I can,' Moran vowed. One came to trust him on this. Disgrace would be the least of Westbridge's worries.

'Glad to hear that, for I myself am unable to help him.'

'Pity. I still don't believe you; you have quite a reputation in the district.'

'Nor I you. There's an ulterior motive.'

'Money. There's a reward.'

'Of course. Nothing for it; since he isn't here, and you refuse to take my word for it, I will tell you a story.'

A sigh. Fidgeting again, this time more rustling than creaking.

'This pearl, so white and pure, once belonged to a collection that dwarfed man's dreams; than it was separated from the rest, and attained additional value, through murder and deceit.'

'Murder, is it?' Moran drawled. I rolled my eyes. From what little I had seen of Watson, the deceit would be by far the more interesting feature.

'A man was hanged for killing his brother, believed to be motivated by greed. A futile action on his part, too; the treasure was gone.'

'Balderdash. There _was_ no treasure to speak of.'

'I am inclined to believe otherwise. It was brought from India decades ago and buried in an orchard. Someone dug it out around six years ago.'

Silence.

'Please do not contemplate trashing it out of me. I only have this one pearl, and that through the generosity of its – previous owner.'

'The treasure was split?'

'At least once, yes.'

'And that previous owner… dug it out?'

'No. When I said "previous", I meant the one before all those misfortunes.' I thought, bizarrely, that Watson was enjoying the situation.

Moran wasn't.

'Do you mean that a man was killed for nothing because the murderer stood to gain nothing from it?'

'I am not the jury.'

'That is not the question they are called to answer, either.'

'They do it nevertheless. Ahem. I _meant_, as I have already _said_, that this jewel was stored _separately_. _I_ happened on it by chance.'

There was that self-irony from before.

'But you learned where it came from.'

'A precious thing awakens curiosity, not to mention an invaluable one… Frankly,' a brief silence; I pictured Watson admiring the jewel, 'I loathe it.'

'Why, then, did you...' Moran trailed off. 'Why keep it?' He was brusque; Watson must have smirked at him for not being able to complete the question. _I_ did.

'Filthy lucre, why else?' Quite how the doctor was going to turn into money something 'invaluable' and so potentially dangerous was beyond me, though on the other hand, I could not recall a case he referred to. The colonel, as was his custom, did not think about such trivialities.

'Aha! So you're not above it!'

'Have you met anyone who is?'

'Not yet.' Moran's sampling technique was devilishly effective, even if his samples were biased.

'Then you are amenable to a negotiation.'

'Perhaps.'

'Excellent! It is yours, in exchange of you never troubling me again _if_ you cannot prove I have your man in a week. That way, _if_ you can trace its history, you can blackmail its, ah, rightful owner for anything, and I shall not object to it.'

'Look for someone who might well be dead by now, or gone to any corner of the world, or lost his entire fortune, _if_ there ever had been one?' Moran's composure was impeccable.

'…You do strike me as a dedicated person.'

There was a snort.

'A week seems hardly fair.'

'Surely it doesn't. You haven't omitted basic research before approaching me; I'm doing you a favour, really.'

The colonel exhaled loudly. 'Fine. We have a deal.'

'Until Tuesday, then.'

'I shall be here to tell you of my findings, whatever they might be.' Moran rose and went to the door. 'It must be hard to offer up such a beautiful bauble when you don't have the man I need.'

By then, Watson was tidying up. His words reached us from somewhere near the window.

'I do despise giving it away for free,' he said at last, mildly. 'But I absolutely hated _picking it up_.'


	5. Confrontation II

An investigator must needs be hardened against embarrassment, even being stuck in an ambush he did not devise. Sitting in that dusty wooden box listening to my then most dangerous enemy barter with someone I had no clear opinion of I sorely regretted being unarmed and unable to light my pipe, but not the eavesdropping itself. This was the confirmation of my purpose here, to prevent the murder of a presumably blameless man; and yet, another mystery loomed ahead, and for all my knowledge of crime recent and past I could not fathom what it was! A visit to Scotland Yard's archive was clearly in order, but in my precarious position I would have to use an alias, and even the Yarders tended to distrust unfamiliar wounded inquirers...

The graze itself was by this time only a minor inconvenience, but I'd have to watch it for signs of infection in case I overstayed my welcome.

Meanwhile, the door creaked open again - I'd lost a while to deliberation. Dragging footsteps of the newcomer, carrying some metallic thing, likely a bucket, were met by eager ones of the host. The bucket was put down gently.

'Why haven't you asked someone?' Watson chided.

'Whom would I ask?' a woman sniped, coquettish but tired.

He sighed or hemmed, there was walking, chair scraping the floor and being sat on, clothes plopping on the rack, bucket picked up and moved to the side, two shoes pulled off and dropped, then a soft contended groan (female).

'I cannot believe it was just a fortnight.'

'Thank you for clearing it up here. Have you eaten?' Watson seemed preoccupied. They were both nearer to the window now.

'Yes, thank you; have you?'

A pause.

'Not another one!' Her words lacked the heat. A rehearsed argument.

'I cannot afford _not_ taking 'another one' in; it was a dull fortnight.'

'So I was told by the cook, but I am glad to hear it again,' she intoned gravely, with an undercurrent of irony.

'How was yours?'

'Pah, the usual - kicking, screaming, biting -'

'He bit you? Show me.'

'He tried to. I felt like a governess all over again.'

'For what it is worth, I am sorry.'

'Don't be.' She snorted, mirthlessly. 'It's a living.'

He struck the wall, a flat thump; but it was she who apologised immediately.

My curiosity was picked; I had not presumed him to be able to be violent towards the weaker ones. Time proved me right, but at that moment I was uncertain and ready to interfere on behalf of the lady.

This personal investment was baffling in itself.

'How can you? I do not deserve it! I do not wish -'

He bit back his words with effort. For about half a minute only breathing, gradually evening out, could be heard.

'You do not wish?' she prompted him mildly.

'I have just endangered your life, dear. Probably sold it for a pack of lies.'

'Probably? Don't you know for sure?.. I see. Another brilliant idea, was it?'

'Have you met the man on your way? I do not think you would've...' That last bit was clearly to himself.

'I saw someone. A gentleman, by the looks of him.'

'Looks are deceptive.'

She exhaled loudly. 'You're impossible. What _did_ you do? Did he threaten you? Me? Start at the beginning.'

'Am not; offered him the pearl _that miraculously appeared on my table during the day_ if he doesn't find Westbridge in a week, or rather doesn't prove I have him; he didn't have to - he _is_ a threat enough; and last but not least - I do not know.' The recital had been wry but turned urgent at the end.

A beat of silence. 'Like I said - you're impossible.'

'I had to.'

'I understand. You did it for the patient. That was only ethical.'

'But I had no right to.'

'Every right! It was my present to you...'

'They are your only valuable possessions!'

(Softly) 'No, not they.'

'…As well as your father's memory.'

'Tainted memory.'

'What isn't?' He flung.

There was a careful, nearly inaudible step, for she had already taken her shoes off, and then a firmer one clicked.

'Tell me what you wish,' she asked, and by the quiet appeal in her words I gathered that he'd shied away.

'That I never treated Sholto; that you never went to London and your name was unsullied by any falsities; that you married a decent man and were happy.'

'Yes. So do I,' she whispered back.

He cleared his throat.

'You will have to go to Mrs. Forrester for some time.'

'But I've just come!'

'We cannot risk the Colonel to find anything that can lead him to you.'

'Confine me to my room, then,' she snapped. 'Or send me back to nurse your current wretched of the hour! I am not hiding, not again.'

'Mary,' he said in fond exasperation, 'I do love you.'

Then, not waiting for her answer (there wasn't one), he went away swiftly, whether in sadness or in joy I could not tell, leaving her to (for me – interminably slowly) unlock the other room, bring the bucket in, start the fire using the coal she'd obviously brought, and then finally turn in for the night.


	6. I have Tarried Too Long

It is not a rare occurrence that an investigator finds several possible beginnings before him and has to select the case to pursue. I held several lines, each bearing a hefty prize; but my goal had mutated, and I would rather net all fish.

Should I go after Westbridge? Corner Watson? Follow Moran, if for no other purpose than to prevent him from seizing an innocent on a wild guess? Dig out that mythical "last owner of the treasure"? Concentrate on my own survival? Demand more data from Mr. Henri Watson? I had been distracted, and neglected to ask some obvious questions; it is a mistake, more costly, perhaps, to independent investigations, since often one's access to witnesses is limited. One solution would be to work in pairs, though reliable partners are hard to come by.

(The protocol by which London official force operates is not fool-proof in that regard, too; though in my opinion, no protocol of theirs could, and even should be, fool-proof.)

I crept out into the foggy darkness to spend the long, dreary hours in the mews, grateful to be hardened against privations by the harshness of detective work, and mulled over the new developments.

Curiously, the door hadn't been locked; Watson's name alone protected his lady's virtue, or lack thereof. Such a show of trust towards his fellow outcasts did not sit well with my image of him as a rational man; there were people in the camp who flaunted their crimes as easily as an old beggar displays his sores. (I mentioned this to the Doctor, without revealing my own involvement, and was rebuffed so harshly, in such vulgar language, that for a few days I stayed well clear of him; eventually he forgave me and asked for my "blunt advice" – but those few precious days were lost, and all because of my good intentions… It turned out that Miss Mary was a trained nurse, as instrumental in the camp's daily existence as her intended, but her name, by unspoken agreement, was rarely mentioned. Nobody there would dare lay a finger on her.)

I only had one clew to her identity, but it was, ironically, the most telling clew possible.

The pearl remained a riddle no longer; I recognized a constellation of Murder, Theft and Libel of a few years back. The woman, then, had to be the young governess, Miss Mary M., falsely accused of same crimes – I helped clear her name, but by the time I was called in, the damage was done; she lost her job and would never be deemed respectable enough to be hired by any family valuing their social status. A man was hanged, but the real perpetrator wasn't caught and now I doubted he ever would be.

Moreover, if I arrived at the conclusion so swiftly, the Colonel, whom nobody could fault for lack of devoutness, would dig the affair up in the matter of days.

Colonel Moran… now there was an enigma. I could not directly spy on him. Scotland Yard had most of Moriarty's agents under lock – but _most_ were not _all_. It took three years to wipe out the last remnants of the monstrous organization.

[A MARGINAL: Three years of hiding, which incidentally were also the three best years of my life – though at that moment I could not know that... M-, do edit the manuscript; it seems taking an active part distorts one's ability to relay an event without going off on all kinds of tangents.]

At length, I composed a message to an ally, to attack the problem from the outside, thus halving the risk for either of us. It might be said here that the missive wasn't delivered in time; otherwise, I am sure, my conscience would not be as troubled... I gambled, and staked more than I had a right to, on the aid of someone whom I trusted absolutely; and still I lost, as I had several times in the past. To err might be human; however, some errors are unpardonable…

As to the kidnapped smoker, I was reasonably certain of my ability to find him. Actually, I determined his location down to a house by mid-morning (a stroke of luck, but luck should never be discarded) by searching the – no longer mysterious - woman's belongings at my earliest convenience, which required me skipping breakfast. Safety precautions, too, demanded that I not look into the matter too closely and too early, for I could doom the unfortunate youth to death. Later on, he was successfully and without much fuss restored to his family.

Upon my return to the 'camp' at daybreak (oh, how I wish that I delivered the note myself), I went to sleep, from which was soon routed by a playful pack of wild, ugly dogs. There was also a boy who seemed to be in charge for them; he called them to heel, and they sat back in a jumble of legs, tails and muzzles. These were the infamous Watson's Hounds; trained to drag drowning people from water onto the shore, the dreadful pack went on silent patrols along Thames's wharves, weaving through unlit dockyards and under empty bridges, with only a street Arab whom they obeyed instantly to call them from their task. They set off at dusk and came back at dawn, sometimes earlier, if their hunt proved lucky.

All of this I hadn't known when they woke me up, and was therefore alarmed by their sudden and threatening presence; however, the first word of their guide drew all other considerations away from my mind.

Cholera.

Two victims died in the night.

A third was as good as gone.

'Were you here yesterday?' the young Charon demanded.

I admitted to that – there was little point in lying; all the while trying to decide whether this were a ruse employed by the host to ward off spies, or a real outbreak – and if so, what should I do?

The rational decision was to run, but one of the Hounds growled low in its throat when I moved to stand; and seeing that no command came from their chief, they circled me and slowly, inevitably drove to the camp proper, where the tramps, gypsies, ne'er-do-wells and other charming fellows of the place were gathering and muttering, glaring at each other with distrust and fear.

Before the growing throng, into which I was unceremoniously herded, stood a pale, barely recognizable Doctor. In one hand he held a revolver, and by the look in his eyes, he would not hesitate to fire it; the other clutched a mop, which looked like another weapon. Behind him, the woman I heard the night before stood with her arms folded as if she were cold; yet her features betrayed not a trace of anxiety.

'We are in quarantine as of this morning,' Watson said. He didn't have to strain his voice; as soon as he started speaking, all other noise died out. 'Food and water will be rationed. I have informed the authorities; they might send their man by midday. Help _is_ forthcoming.'

He waited for murmurs to cease.

'All of you, who have been sick with it before, come forward.'

'I have!' a reedy voice called out. A thin, disheveled man in rags, former tinker, now petty thief, pressed forward and burst out of the crowd. 'I have, sir. May I go?'

'Certainly not,' Watson gestured for him to stand aside. 'As you're less likely to fall ill, you will be an orderly, Murray.'

Murray's mute horror showed his declaration to be a lie. The Doctor harrumphed mirthlessly and asked again if there were anybody with previous experience of the sickness – though he did not order the man to stand back.

This time, nobody answered. Watson swallowed the disappointment and finished curtly: 'Further instructions will be given in half an hour, so come back here, all of you. I will not brook any disobedience. Remember, there will be bayonets on that side of the street.'

And with that, he turned on his heel and marched inside, leaving the crowd to stare after him in torpor and despair.


End file.
